


Sensational

by IAmANonnieMouse



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AU, Angst, Canon Compliant, Deaf Character, Lip reading, M/M, Mild Language, Slow Burn, deaf!arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-07-13 01:19:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7132283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/pseuds/IAmANonnieMouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur wakes up to total, all-encompassing silence. He can’t hear the rustle of fabric as he shifts under the bed sheets, or the soft <i>click</i> as he presses the snooze button on his clock, or the steady bustle of the world outside his bedroom window. </p><p>He can’t hear any of these things, so he knows he’s in reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know that the last thing I should be doing is staring yet _another_ multi-chapter fic when I have 2 other incomplete works waiting in the wings, but I got this idea in my head and I had to write it down (so as not to have a repeat of The Lost AU) and I just have no patience and wanted to post it.
> 
> (On a side note, how do I come up with such ridiculous titles? I mean, honestly.)
> 
> With that said, I hope you all enjoy!

Arthur wakes up to total, all-encompassing silence. He can’t hear the rustle of fabric as he shifts under the bed sheets, or the soft _click_ as he presses the snooze button on his clock, or the steady bustle of the world outside his bedroom window. 

He can’t hear any of these things, so he knows he’s in reality.

He sits up in bed and sighs heavily, feeling the rush of air through his nostrils and imagining the soft sound that accompanies it. _And what a shitty reality it is,_ he thinks.

~+~+~

Arthur lost his hearing when he was boy. He was young enough that the exact time and precise reasons of his deafness are blurred by the passage of time, but he was old enough that he can still, tantalizingly, remember what it was like to hear birds singing, to listen to beautiful music, to grimace at the scratch of graphite on paper in an otherwise silent classroom.

He learned to compensate, learned to read lips in a stubborn refusal to let the entire world know that he couldn’t hear. Because Arthur isn’t a fool, he learned ASL, too, but he’s made it a challenge for himself, a matter of pride, to be able to get by without having to gesture expressively.

His architecture professor is the one who introduced him to Miles, who introduced him to Dom Cobb, who introduced him to dreamshare. Arthur was a natural, and he instantly fell in love, but not for the reason that Dom and Miles assumed.

In a dream, Arthur can _hear_ again, can listen to the rustle of wind across a field, the different tones in a person’s voice, the comforting _sshshssh_ when Arthur slides his hands into his pockets.

Arthur becomes a very good dreamer, very fast.

~+~+~

The first time Arthur meets Eames, Arthur is completely in over his head. Eames must have an accent or a speech impediment or _something_ that makes him move his mouth differently than a normal human being, because Arthur can’t for the life of him figure out what the Forger is saying and Arthur is completely screwed.

Because, of course, his stupid pride prevented him from ever telling Dom that he is deaf. And, of course, because he is so stubborn and tenacious, Arthur’s perpetual silence didn’t concern Dom in the least, because Arthur produced great work and that was enough for Dom. So Arthur has absolutely no one to help him unless he tells everyone about his _disability._

Arthur wrinkles his nose at that. So what if Arthur is completely caught off guard when Eames flounces in and starts talking a mile a minute with his irregular speech patterns? Arthur is perfect at dealing with problems. It’s his job, after all.

(Arthur’s initial, instinctive reaction when he encounters anything he doesn’t understand is to _avoid_ it, job description be damned, so Arthur barely looks Eames in the eye once while they’re planning and reconning in reality.

He lets Eames think he’s just an obnoxious asshole who’s ignoring him, lets Cobb be the one to do the sweet-talking. And it works, for the most part.)

The first time they go under in a practice run, Arthur is shocked to hear Eames’ warm English accent. He can only relish it for precious moments before Eames Forges their mark’s sister and his gorgeous accent gives way to a stereotypical Southern drawl.

When they wake up, Arthur can’t seem to stop frowning. Eames’ voice plays in his head on an infinite loop, the airy “R”s, the lilt to every word. No wonder Arthur can’t read his lips.

~+~+~

Arthur goes under more than he usually does in preparation for this job, under the guise of fine-tuning the architecture, of double- and triple-checking Eames’ Forge.

Arthur is actually using the dream time to gather data on Eames, learning how the man contorts his mouth when speaking.

As the job lumbers on, Arthur grows more and more adept at reading Eames’ lips topside, and by the time they are going their separate ways, money tucked safely away in bank accounts and back pockets, Arthur confidently looks Eames in the eye and waves a goodbye.

After Eames’ response, though, Arthur thinks he still has a lot of work to do with his lip reading, because there is no way in hell Eames said to him, _Goodbye, darling._ No way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames prides himself on his skill of sizing people up in a matter of seconds. You just have to know what to look for, and Eames has spent over half of his life being one of the best lookers around.

Eames prides himself on his skill of sizing people up in a matter of seconds. You just have to know what to look for, and Eames has spent over half of his life being one of the best lookers around. So when he meets Arthur--fragments of a three-piece suit, rolled up sleeves, aggressively slicked back hair, analytical eyes, dexterous hands--he categorizes him as a _skilled but unfortunately arrogant prick._

But Eames knows that this guy is the one who, at the end of the day, is covering his ass, not Cobb, so he tries to be nice. Tries.

“Arthur,” Eames calls on that first day, shrugging on his coat, “we’re going to get some lunch, want to come?”

Arthur doesn’t even look up from his papers.

“Arthur!” Eames calls. “Arthur? _Arthur!_ ”

A hand clasps his shoulder. “Don’t mind him,” Cobb says, steering Eames out the door. “Once he gets engrossed in his work, there’s no pulling him out. I usually poke him if I want him, but he doesn’t take kindly to that.”

Eames glances at Cobb--squinty eyes, half-assed formal attire, sloppily tucked-in shirt--and changes his label from _slippery, backstabbing, accomplished extractor_ to _slippery, backstabbing, spineless extractor who lets unfortunately arrogant pricks call all the shots_.

They order their sandwiches--Cobb orders an extra one, everything on the side, for Arthur--and they head back to the warehouse. Cobb puts his hand on Arthur's shoulder as he places the sandwich on his desk, and Arthur flies out of seat, turning in a fluid, sudden motion that puts his desk in between him and Cobb. There is a knife in his hand.

Eames whistles, impressed, but thankfully Arthur and Cobb ignore him.

“Sorry, Arthur,” Cobb says, hands placatingly held in the air in front of him. “I didn't mean to startle you. I brought you lunch.”

Eames takes in Arthur's posture, the way his eyes flick up and down, from Cobb’s face to his outstretched hands to the desk, the comfortable way his hand holds the knife. _Military background,_ Eames notes. _On edge. Easily startled._

What about Arthur makes Cobb so willing to put up with all of his strange behavior? Eames doesn’t know, but he’s determined to figure it out.

Eames watches Arthur carefully over the course of the rest of the job, notices the tiny details that others would miss. Like Arthur’s inability to look anyone in the eye when they’re talking to him, his attention intently focused somewhere else, slightly lower than eye level. Or Arthur’s apparent dislike of answering questions unless the person asking is standing directly in front of him, looking him straight in the eye. Or Arthur’s perpetual frown whenever Eames talks to him, a frown that, Eames realizes, isn’t necessarily an _angry_ frown, just a contemplative one. Or Arthur’s unwillingness to speak in reality, something Eames hadn’t actually noticed until he heard Arthur swearing creatively and violently during their extraction when he realized the mark had a sibling they hadn’t known about.

When they finish the job and are going their separate ways, Eames can’t possibly ignore the hunch he has. He’s survived this long by trusting his instincts. Why should he disregard them now? So he looks Arthur directly in the eye, says, “Goodbye, darling,” as a test, and walks away, Arthur’s puzzled frown and silence telling him all he needs to know.

He makes it home soon after and immediately starts reading everything he can find about deafness and lip reading.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years pass, and Arthur gains a reputation as the best Point Man in the business. He and Dom have enough jobs lined up for them both to retire in their thirties as millionaires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am putting this on all three of my WIPs: I have pretty much planned out all of [Unchained Melody](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5952099) and [A Mindful Friend](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6824026), so I plan to update those and [Sensational](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7132283) on a fairly regular, rotating basis. So if I update Melody, then I'll make sure I update Friend and Sensational first before coming back to Melody. Deal? Let's see if I can tie up some of these loose ends!

Arthur forgets about Eames in favor of focusing on Keeping Dom Alive. Years pass, and Arthur gains a reputation as the best Point Man in the business. He and Dom have enough jobs lined up for them both to retire in their thirties as millionaires, but then Dom puts everything on hold because he is infatuated with a supposedly gorgeous woman from France. 

Arthur is ready to murder him.

So while Dom is falling head over heals, Arthur is cursing him for declining all those jobs, idly plotting his murder strategy, and berating himself for never working more on reading lips with accents. Something tells him a French accent is going to be much worse than an English one.

After copious amounts of swearing, sweating, and one unmentionable weekend involving two all-nighters, disgusting microwavable food, and keyboard smashing, Arthur works up the courage to meet Mal in person.

She is absolutely lovely.

They meet for dinner at a restaurant whose name Arthur can’t pronounce. Mal is dressed in a deceptively simple black gown, a string of pearls around her throat. The light reflects in the ring on her fourth finger, and Arthur throws Dom a sideways glance.

They order their food--Arthur points at what he wants on the menu--and Mal leans back in her chair, her attentive eyes fixed on Arthur.

“I have heard a lot about you,” she says. At least, Arthur thinks that is what she says.

He smiles and nods noncommittally.

“Arthur isn’t one for conversation,” Dom says to Mal, resting his hand on top of hers.

Mal smiles. “That is fine,” she says. “I can talk enough for the both of us.”

And she does. She maintains a steady stream of conversation throughout dinner, setting up questions so that Arthur can respond with a nod or shake of his head. She tucks her arm in his as they exist the restaurant, and Arthur’s nose is filled with her perfume, a mix of spices and herbs he can’t place. He likes it.

Despite Arthur’s total silence, he somehow manages to connect more with Mal in that single night than with anyone ever before.

The three of them take a taxi back to Dom’s house, and Mal sends Dom in ahead of her, resting a hand on Arthur’s arm. She leans back and makes sure she has Arthur’s attention. Then, slowly and clearly, she says, “Your secret is safe with me,” followed by something Arthur can’t read. A French word, perhaps.

She leans in and kisses him on each cheek and smiles gently. She waves goodbye as Arthur gets back in the taxi.

Arthur adores her.

~+~+~

Mal and Dom are married in the middle of spring, when the flowers are in bloom and the sky is radiantly blue. Arthur stands at Dom’s side at the altar, and he longingly watches the musicians’ fingers dance across their instruments.

Miles walks Mal down the aisle and merrilly nods at Arthur as he steps to the side. Because, of course, the world is so small that Dom’s wife is the daughter of the man who introduced Arthur to dreamshare. Arthur doesn't try to understand it.

~+~+~

He takes on a few jobs after the wedding, all with sub-par extractors, and when Dom emails him six months later with a subject of “!!!!!” and the message, _Mal’s pregnant_ , he more than willingly heads back to the states to meet the Cobbs’ first-born.

Philippa is a beautiful baby, and Arthur spends days on end with her after, at Mal’s insistence, he takes a hiatus from dreamshare.

James arrives soon after, and he follows his big sister around the house devotedly. Arthur babysits from time to time when Dom and Mal want a night to themselves, and Arthur relaxes into this loving family that has, for some reason, invited him in, too.

~+~+~

The night of their three-year anniversary, Arthur arrives on their doorstep for dinner, a bouquet of flowers in his arms. He rings the doorbell repeatedly, knocks endlessly, but no one answers. Arthur grabs the spare key tucked under the flower pot and walks inside.

The dining room table is bare, the kitchen cold and empty. The children are nowhere to be seen. Arthur throws the flowers on the kitchen counter and hurries to check the rest of the rooms, trying to dream himself a gun even though he fully knows this is reality. He curses the silence that envelops him as his brain cycles through stories about abductions, kidnappings, ransoms.

Bathroom, empty. Hallway, empty. TV, off.

Arthur reaches the kids’ room and breathes a sigh of relief at the sight. He clutches James close, resting his forehead against James’ smaller one, and tucks Philippa against his side. They struggle to breathe again, in the comfort of each other’s arms.

Philippa starts to wriggle, and Arthur lets her go, concerned. She tries to tell him something, but Arthur can’t read it, and he struggles to get her to slow down. She gives up and pulls on his arm repeatedly, pulling her after him into the living room.

Dom and Mal are sprawled on the floor. They aren’t moving.

Arthur scans the room for attackers, then rushes to their sides, checking for a pulse. Both are steady and strong. It’s then that he spots the PASIV, and he checks the timer. Thirty minutes.

An hour has passed since they set it.

Arthur forces himself into action. He herds the kids into the kitchen, cooks them dinner, watches a movie with them, then sends them to bed, trying to act like it’s perfectly normal for their parents to be lying, practically comatose, on their living room floor.

Once the children are fast asleep, Arthur sits down next to the motionless Cobbs and waits for one of them to stir. The sky outside darkens to black then fades to reds, oranges, then blue again, and they don’t move once.

He emails Miles in the morning, exhausted, and begs him for help, asks him what could possibly be wrong. Miles’ response arrives within the minute.

_Limbo._

_I’ll be there by tonight._

Arthur picks up Miles at the airport with James and Philippa in the backseat, singing along to Raffi. Miles takes charge and says that Arthur can go home now, he will watch the kids and keep an eye on Dom and Mal.

Arthur stays for a few more days, holding onto the hope that they would wake up. The weekend arrives with no sign of movement from either of them, so Arthur gathers his resources and jumps back into dreamshare.

Painful, nerve-wracking months pass, months filled with mediocre jobs and sleepless nights and weekly emails from Miles that always, _always_ read, _Condition not improved._

After the millionth email from Miles, Arthur resigns himself to the fact that they will never wake up.


	4. Chapter 4

Years pass before Eames sees Arthur again. He almost turns down the job, actually, until the extractor starts babbling about how amazingly _competent_ Arthur is at running point, and has Eames ever seen it himself, because it is like a work of art watching that man work, and Eames abruptly says, “I’ll be there within the week,” and hangs up.

Arthur is the only one in the warehouse when Eames arrives, even though it’s already ten in the morning, and Eames waves brightly. Arthur frowns and turns away.

Eames claims the nearest empty desk as his own and sets his bag down on it, then sits back to watch Arthur for a moment. He has his laptop out and is furiously typing, the clacking echoing through the open room. His notebook’s pages are dog-eared and torn, and his fingers keep hesitating over the laptop keys, hovering an inch or so in the air and wiggling spasmodically. His shirt is coming slightly untucked from the back of his pants, and Eames realizes Arthur isn’t wearing a belt. His shirt sleeves are cuffed and pushed up to his elbows, like usual, but the fabric is roughly bunched up instead of neatly folded back. His hair is only barely slicked back, and pieces of it curl around his face.

Eames lets Arthur work, uninterrupted, for a half hour, but when nobody has shown up by then, Eames stands and walks over to Arthur’s desk, stopping in front of it. Arthur finishes typing, then looks at Eames condescendingly. Eames appreciates how much Arthur can convey with just his body language.

Is everything alright? Eames signs at Arthur, eyebrows raised to show it is a question.

For a moment, Arthur is perfectly, utterly still in his seat, and Eames wonders if he’s done something wrong, and then Arthur explodes into motion, much like he had when Cobb startled him, and he shoves Eames up against the wall, forearm across his throat, and Eames remembers that knife that Arthur had pulled out of thin air with Cobb and knows that he has probably, definitely, crossed a line somewhere.

“Arthur,” he says, talking a bit slower than his customary speed-of-light chatter, “it’s alright. I figured it out on my own, it’s fine, I _swear,_ nobody else knows.”

Eames isn’t stupid. He knows there is a reason Arthur struggled in silence during their first job together, just like he knows for a fact that the sky is blue and dirt is brown and spoiled milk tastes absolutely _ghastly_. And Arthur doesn’t seem to be the shy, self-conscious type, so Eames is mostly, definitely sure that Arthur’s kept his deafness a secret to prevent others from taking advantage of it. Weaknesses are an expensive luxury in dreamshare.

The warehouse door screeches open, and Eames’ eyes flicker over Arthur’s shoulder to see who it is. Arthur presses his arm more firmly against Eames’ throat and turns to look behind himself. Faster than Eames can blink, he’s seated at his desk again, typing away furiously, as if nothing has happened.

The extractor walks in, young, energetic, and so, so stupid. “Hey, man!” he says to Eames with a grin. “Are you my Forger?”

Eames glances over at Arthur, then back at the extractor. “Yeah, mate, that’s me,” he says gamely.

“Awesome!” the extractor says.

“Awesome,” Eames echoes.

~+~+~

It’s a small group for a small job, one that, technically, doesn’t even need a Forger. Eames knew that the minute the kid started talking to him on the phone, but he wasn’t about to turn down easy money just because the kid is an idiot.

Arthur ignores him all morning, and the extractor chatters on and on about their mark and her unusual personality and the intrigue of their task, and Eames tries to not yawn too obviously.

Late that afternoon, Eames and Arthur go under, ostensibly so that Eames can practice his Forge, but the moment they’re there, Arthur has him pinned against another wall.

“How the hell did you find out?” he growls.

Eames pauses, takes in that new bit of information. “You can hear in a dream, then?” he says.

Arthur glowers at him.

“I hope this isn’t starting to become a habit, darling” Eames says, gesturing at him and the wall.

“How did you find out,” Arthur repeats, his voice gravelly, and _God,_ Eames must have a truly horrid life if he thinks that this is the hottest thing that’s happened to him.

“I just made some observations,” Eames says, trying to get his priorities straight, but then he realizes he can feel Arthur’s breath on his face, _bloody hell,_ they’re so close, and his priorities get decidedly curvy. “You never respond if someone’s calling your name, and you don’t look people in the eye when they’re speaking. Little things, Arthur, most people wouldn’t have noticed them, _haven’t_ noticed them.”

Arthur is still glaring. Eames doesn’t know what to do next.

“You have trouble with accents, don’t you?” he says. Arthur is still staring at him, and it’s making him nervous like he’s never been nervous before. “I can help you, if you want. Coach you on an English accent, sign to you if you miss something someone is saying topside.”

Arthur frowns. “Why?” he says.

That stops Eames short. “Why not?” he says, dumbly. 

“And really, you just happen to know ASL?” Arthur scoffs.

“A Forger finds it beneficial to know many things, Arthur,” Eames lies.

Arthur opens his mouth to speak, and then Eames is awake, their young, chatty, naive extractor already talking, and Eames looks over at Arthur just in time to see him look around and close his eyes resignedly. 

He catches Arthur’s eyes when the extractor turns his back and signs, yes or no?

Arthur sighs heavily and rolls his eyes. Fine, he signs and walks away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur doesn't know why, exactly, he accepts Eames' help.

Arthur doesn’t know why, exactly, he accepts Eames’ help, but Eames is true to his word, and he helps Arthur pick up the idiosyncrasies of British accents while they’re dreaming as “test runs.” Arthur doesn’t even feel a hint of guilt for doing it, because the job is a farce, and both he and Eames are grossly overqualified for it. This is the most productive they can possibly be under these conditions.

Topside, Eames is surprisingly skilled at signing without others noticing, covering it up as stretches or random gesticulations. Arthur could almost be impressed. As the weeks pass and he gets more used to accents, though, it becomes completely unnecessary, and Arthur tells Eames this the next time they’re under.

Eames pouts dramatically. “But, darling, what if I enjoy it?”

“And knock it off with the ‘darling’ thing, too, okay?” Arthur rolls his eyes and turns away. Miles had emailed him that morning, with the same exact message as always. Arthur’s feeling destructive and dangerous.

“Again, darling,” Eames says, “what if I enjoy it?”

He places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and Arthur smoothly slides out from under it, twisting it behind Eames’ back in the process. “Yeah, well, I don’t,” he says, directly into Eames’ ear. He shoves Eames to the ground and he’s already kicked himself awake before Eames has caught his balance.

He wants to rip the IV out of his arm, but he forces himself to use careful, controlled movements. He deliberately pulls it out, and he deliberately coils it, and he deliberately walks out the door.

He leaves the warehouse and paces around its perimeter. _Why does Eames have to be so dramatic?_ he thinks. His hand is clenched around his cell phone. _Stupid Cobbs,_ he thinks.

He does another lap, and another, and another, and then goes back inside. The idiot extractor is trying to tell him something, but Arthur ignores him. It’s horribly easy to do.

~+~+~

Something about Eames is… _off_ for the rest of the job. Arthur can’t quite place it. Eames gets all his work done, and he is always there if Arthur is looking for him, but something is strange.

Arthur pushes it to the side, just one more thing to be dealt with once they complete the job.

It goes perfectly, even with an idiot extractor, and they’re in and out before the mark’s subconscious has a chance to notice they’re even there.

The idiot extractor grins as Arthur hands him his share of the money, slaps them all on the back, and finally, _finally_ walks out the door. Arthur is glad to see him leave.

He glances over at Eames, gathering his things in the corner of the room, and he walks over and places a hand on his arm. Eames turns, a question in his eyes. Arthur lifts his hands to sign, but then his phone vibrates in his pocket and he pulls it out, annoyed. He freezes.

_They’re awake._

Eames taps Arthur on the arm. What’s wrong? he signs.

Arthur looks at Eames, then down at his phone. He clumsily slides it into his pocket. I have to go, he signs, and shoves Eames’ money into his arms. I have to go.

He doesn’t exactly run out of the warehouse, but it’s a close thing.

~+~+~

The flight feels endless, and then he has to wait for a cab, and then the cabbie is a stubborn ass who can’t just _read the address on Arthur’s phone,_ and then the cab gets stuck in traffic, and by the time he reaches the Cobbs’ house, he thinks it would be a pretty horrible joke if he walked in and they were still asleep.

He rings the doorbell and Miles answers. He lets Arthur in with a smile. Arthur steps inside and freezes, eyes wide.

Cobb is making dinner, holding James in one arm as he tosses ingredients haphazardly in a pot on the stove. Philippa follows them both around the kitchen, watching them like a hawk.

 _They’re awake,_ Arthur thinks.

Then, he sees Mal. Mal, sitting at the dining room table, eyes glassy, carelessly running her fingers along the edge of an enormous, shiny, sharp knife.

Arthur runs over and rips it from her hands. What’s wrong with you? he wants to shout at her. Are you crazy? But he can’t.

Mal looks up, and what he sees in her beautiful, deep, expressive eyes terrifies him. _What’s wrong with you?_ he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah, I made a [Tumblr.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/iamanonniemouse) I don't really know what I'm doing on it yet, but at least I made one, right? :-)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next time Eames hears about Arthur, he’s sitting across from Dom Cobb himself, listening to him blabber on about Inception.

Eames returns home and most definitely, decidedly doesn’t sulk. He doesn’t sit on his couch with a lukewarm bottle of beer and pitiful bag of broken crisps and watch mindless shows on the telly. He doesn’t keep his phone in his lap, ringer turned all the way up, waiting for it to chime. And he certainly doesn’t think about Arthur, or his graceful fingers, or his gravelly voice in dreams, or his various, expressive frowns.

Because Eames is most definitely, decidedly splicing cable off his American neighbors who are too stupid and oblivious for their own good, his mindless show is interrupted with the breaking news report of the sudden, tragic death of Malorie Cobb, whose husband, the police’s prime suspect, is currently at large.

Eames stares at the screen, then hurriedly grabs his phone.

 _Arthur,_ he types frantically, _do you know?_

The phone stays obstinately dark and silent, and Eames falls asleep on his couch, phone cradled in his limp hands, lukewarm beer now too hot for consumption, sitting on the table where he left it. 

He’s woken up in the morning by a soft trill. He blinks blearily, then lunges for his phone.

 _I all but fucking witnessed it myself,_ reads the new message, sent from a blocked number.

Eames’ fingers hover over the keyboard. He wants to write something like, _Where are you? Let me help._ But he knows better.

_Again, darling, what if I enjoy it?_

_Well, I don’t._

Instead, he types, _bugger,_ hits send before he can think better of it, shuts off his phone, and changes the channel until he’s found a ridiculous soap opera dubbed in German. He grabs himself a newer, colder beer out of his fridge and settles down to finish off his pitiful bag of broken crisps.

~+~+~

The next time he hears about Arthur, he’s sitting across from Dom Cobb himself, still at large in America, still wanted for the murder of his wife, still determinedly a part of dreamshare. Cobb blabbers on about Inception, and Eames knows he’s in the moment Cobb mentions Arthur, because Eames is a very practical man, and he makes a point of creating a mental list of his weaknesses, and Arthur is currently Number One.

So he joins the team for this ridiculous, doomed job, because he wants to see Arthur’s face again, wants to hear his beautiful voice when they’re dreaming, wants to see Arthur scowl at him just one more time.

He is such a bloody idiot.

~+~+~

He and Arthur pick up right where they left off, seemingly at odds but frustratingly always in sync. It works well for them. Their young, green architect watches them curiously, but the others are accustomed to their strange dynamic and don’t question it.

Arthur looks even worse than before, noticeably frayed around the edges. When they’re discussing their plan, Arthur writes endlessly in his notebook without watching the people speaking once. Eames wonders what Arthur could possibly be writing; it certainly isn’t a transcription of what the others are saying.

Eames watches him from afar, ready to jump in a catch the pieces when they shatter and fall but not a moment sooner, and he makes sure to buy a sandwich, everything on the side, when he goes out to get lunch every day, since Cobb has evidently forgotten his most important job of keeping Arthur nourished.

~+~+~

When Eames is talking through his plan one afternoon, discussing his use of his Forge, he spots Arthur quickly sign impressed out of the corner of his eye.

“Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated, Arthur, thank you,” he says before he can stop himself.

The others all look at him like he’s crazy. Maybe he is. Why else would he have ever signed on for this kind of job?

~+~+~

They’re in a gunfight, and everything is already going to shit, but Eames is fighting alongside Arthur, and they’re like one mind in two bodies, and Arthur’s lovely voice is shouting at him, “Get him!” and Eames is darting out of hiding to shoot the projection trapped between their car and another, and Eames’ adrenaline is soaring through his veins, and Arthur is driving, recklessly controlled, and Eames has never felt more fantastically alive.

~+~+~

They’re about to go under again, and Eames isn’t ready, he isn’t ready to leave Arthur alone to this shitshow, and he, _God,_ he is so selfish sometimes, but he just wants to desperately to hear Arthur’s voice just _one more time,_ so that if he falls into Limbo, at least he’ll have this memory of Arthur to keep him company as his brain turns to scrambled egg.

“Security’s going to run you down hard,” he murmurs. Arthur flicks his hand out of the way and unbuttons Eames’ sleeve himself, and Eames absolutely, definitely doesn’t read into that at all. His eyes are fixated on Arthur’s fingers, Arthur’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, touching his skin.

Arthur says, “And I will lead them on a merry chase,” and Eames wrenches his eyes upwards and forces a broad smile on his face.

“Just be back before the kick,” he says as he leans back to lie on the floor. His eyes dart quickly, taking in all of Arthur. Just in case.

Arthur teases him with the hint of a smile. “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”

Eames goes to sleep.

~+~+~

They do it. They make it out of the dream, they make it through the kicks, they all make it back to the plane, and Eames is certain that this is proof he has a guardian angel, and he is doubly certain his guardian angel is telling him to try again with Arthur.

He reaches out as Arthur passes him at the baggage claim, but Arthur smoothly pulls his arm out of Eames’ gentle grip and walks on without looking back.

It’s okay, Eames thinks. Guardian angels aren’t infallible.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur feels a smile spread across his face. They did it.
> 
> His phone vibrates.
> 
>  _We did it, darling,_ the message reads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I am so, terribly sorry for making you all wait so long for an update. I was having a bit of trouble with this fic, so I put it on the back burner for a while. I am now, hopefully, leading this fic to an imminent conclusion. We'll see if Arthur and Eames decide to cooperate.

Arthur has many houses scattered across the globe, various spots for him to hunker down or take a breather, and it’s worked for him so far, this nomadic life. But after the Inception job, when Arthur’s standing the airport watching the flights come and go, he makes an impulsive decision and books a flight home.

Nothing has changed since he last set foot inside almost a year ago. He breathes deeply, inhaling that dry, dead scent that fills an uninhabited house, but underneath it, still, is that scent which is just _home._

He turns on the TV as he walks by, then stops as Robert Fischer’s face appears on the screen.

He quickly scans the blocky subtitles.

_In an unexpected turn of events today, Robert Fischer declared that he would be dissolving the very Empire he inherited only days ago. His father, Maurice Fischer, dedicated most of his life to the infamous Fischer Empire, which dominated its field for years._

The TV cuts to footage of Fischer standing at a podium.

 _My father always told me to be myself,_ Fischer is saying. _I think this is what he would have wanted, for me to go off on my own and make a name for myself._

Arthur feels a smile spread across his face. They did it.

His phone vibrates.

 _We did it, darling,_ the message reads.

And Arthur is so happy that he types back, _Yeah, we did. Great work,_ before he remembers that everything with Eames is strange and confusing and that was why he came home, to figure it all out.

He glances at his phone screen. Oops.

 _You too,_ Eames responds immediately.

Arthur shuts off his phone before he can make any more bad decisions.

He runs out to the corner store to stock up on the basics and eats dinner on his couch because he can. He kicks his shoes off and wiggles his toes into the fluffiness of his favorite blanket and puts on a film he’s seen a million times before, mentally saying each character’s line. He falls asleep cocooned in warm softness, with the closing credits scrolling across his TV.

~+~+~

He takes a break from dreamshare to just relish in the blissful sense of power and freedom that accompanies a death-defying act.

He successfully pulled off Inception.

He keeps his phone turned off.

~+~+~

One month later, he decides that enough time has passed. He can feel the itchiness under his skin that’s just begging for another adventure.

He hesitates for a moment before turning his phone back on, telling himself not to be hopeful about anything.

When his phone vibrates, his heart stutters, but it’s just an email from Dom, saying that he’s retiring from dreamshare to be with his kids.

Arthur tells himself that he’s stupid for feeling disappointed.

~+~+~

He takes as job in Istanbul that’s offensively easy. He’s in and out in a few days. From there, he goes to Austria, Italy, Russia, Japan. Wherever he wants to go, there’s always a job waiting for him.

It’s easy to get lost in work again and forget about everything else.

~+~+~

They need a Forger for his next job. The extractor calls Eames.

Eames smiles and nods politely at Arthur when he walks into the room, and that’s it. No pet names, teasing smirks, or lingering touches. Arthur doesn’t know how to feel about it.

~+~+~

He grabs Eames’ arm on their way out, after the job is finished.

 _Can we talk?_ he signs, after a brief hesitation.

Eames’ eyes widen and he nods. They go to a café a few blocks away.

Arthur takes a moment to compose his thoughts. _Look,_ he signs, _I’m sorry for…how rude I’ve been. There’s been…a lot going on. And I’m sorry if I blew you off or ignored you or anything, and…_

Eames is already waving his hands. _Never,_ he said emphatically. _There’s no need for you to be worrying yourself about me. Don’t even give it a second thought._

Arthur shakes his head. _I’m sorry,_ he repeats. _And…I’d like to start over, fresh?_

Eames smiles gently. _You don’t have to._ His smile grows and he glances at his watch. _Come on,_ he signs and gently takes Arthur’s hand. _I want to show you something._

He takes Arthur to the coast, and they stand and watch the waves crash against the shore.

 _High tide,_ Eames signs.

 _Yes, Eames,_ Arthur replies, rolling his eyes slightly, _I can see that._

One particularly monstrous wave crashes against the wall between sidewalk and beach and completely drenches them both.

Eames is doubled over in laugher.

“Fuck,” Arthur says, shaking his head vigorously. This outfit is definitely ruined.

When he looks back over, Eames has straightened and is looking at Arthur curiously. _So you can talk? In reality?_

Arthur shrugs. _It feels weird. I try not to._

Eames smiles. _I love hearing your voice._

Arthur doesn’t know how he’s supposed to respond to that, so he flings salt water at Eames from his drenched fingertips instead.

~+~+~

Somehow, they end up flying out together. Arthur takes Eames to his house in Switzerland before he can second guess it, and they spend a few weeks just enjoying each other’s company.

Some days, they dream, and Eames asks Arthur to never stop talking.

Arthur doesn’t understand how Eames is…Eames. But he hasn’t ever really had a friend outside of work, other than Dom, and he doesn’t want to disturb this sudden, peaceful equilibrium, so he doesn’t ask.

~+~+~

He gets an email a few days later about a job.

Eames, reading over his shoulder, signs, _You should take it. Looks interesting._

Arthur hesitates.

Eames puts a hand on his shoulder. “Text me when you’re done,” he says.

Arthur smiles and nods in agreement. He packs that night, and catches the first flight out.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames tries not to, he really does. But as soon as Arthur’s gone, the doubt starts to creep in, with all the questions Eames hadn’t let himself think about before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I can't believe it either. Another chapter to Sensational? Is the world ending???
> 
> I have to make a confession. Writing this chapter was a little bit like pulling teeth. That's because I had (*cough* have *cough*) this really bad habit of posting fics before they're done. Actually, well. I come up with a premise, write a bit, post it, then realize I have absolutely plan for what's actually going to happen over the course of the fic.
> 
> So, in this case, I thought, _It would be so cool if Arthur were deaf, and he could only hear in a dream._ And so I wrote that. And posted it. And realized I had no actual, like, _plot_ that went along with it. So I bumbled along, etc. But now I'm at that stage where I have a general idea of where I sort of think this should end? So I'm trying to tie up loose ends now. (To any people that, like, somehow think I know what I'm doing, I am sorry that I've crushed your dreams. As [somedrunkpirate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate) once aptly described my writing process (or lack thereof): "It's like your brain spits out shit and you gotta choose what sticks to the wall.")
> 
> Sorry this chapter is fairly short. The biggest thing coming up really needs to come from Arthur's POV, not Eames', so next chapter will be the big developments. I think this fic will be finished soon. If not by next chapter, then the chapter after that. Ish.
> 
> With all of that said, I would like to say thank you in advance to anyone who is still following this. I have been horrible about updating this, and I will be honored if even a single person still reads this.
> 
> Also, kudos to whoever actually read this long, rambling author's note. Seriously.

Eames tries not to, he really does. But as soon as Arthur’s gone, the doubt starts to creep in, with all the questions Eames hadn’t let himself think about before.

Like why Arthur suddenly had this change of heart.

Or if Arthur’s actually going to tell him when he finishes the job.

Or if Arthur was just leading him on as some horrible joke and—

Once, he thinks this has all been a dream, and he frantically grabs his totem and tears his apartment apart looking for a mirror. But the totem tells him it’s reality, and his reflection looks like him, so he tells his racing heart to slow down.

If only he could stop the doubt as easily.

~+~+~

The text comes at two in the morning. Eames knocks half the things off his nightstand while fumbling for his phone.

_8am. Harrisburg intl._

Eames squints at the clock, looks back at his phone. He swears and leaps out of bed.

~+~+~

He doesn’t exactly run through the terminal, but it’s a close thing. He spots Arthur’s dark head in the crowd and hurries to his side, circling around a few people so that he approaches Arthur from the front, not the back.

Arthur’s eyes brighten when he sees him, and he waves shyly.

Eames grabs his suitcase before he can protest and walks him to his car.

If he were braver, he thinks, he would reach out and take Arthur’s hand. But he’s a liar and a thief and a coward, and he tucks his hand deep inside his coat’s pocket and worries the stray tissue inside until it’s shredded to a pulp.

But it’s enough, because Arthur came back to him, Arthur is sitting in the car with him laughing at Eames’ horrible jokes and smiling brilliantly, and he is so beautiful Eames could die then and there and never have any regrets. One tissue is a small price to pay if he can have all of this.

~+~+~

Arthur taps him on the shoulder when they make it back to Eames’ apartment.

 _What’s wrong?_ he signs.

Eames hesitates. _Nothing._

Arthur raises a brow.

Eames tries again. _I’m happy you’re back._ There. That was true.

Arthur frowns at him suspiciously but lets it drop. He picks up his bags and deposits them in Eames’ bedroom.

Eames only has one bed in the apartment. He shouldn’t read into this.

He knows the image of Arthur’s suitcases at the foot of his bed will be forever emblazoned in his memory.

~+~+

He bumbles around the kitchen, trying to scrounge up an acceptable dinner from boxes of ramen, slightly overripe fruit, and rice. 

Arthur pads into the room, wearing worn sweatpants and fluffy socks, and it hits Eames, guts him where he stands, because he gets to see Arthur like this, away from the suits and the ties and vests and slicked back hair. And he desperately, wildly thinks he’s the _only_ one that’s seen this.

They stare at each other in silence.

Arthur shifts on his feet. _Do you want me to leave?_

Eames drops the wooden spoon he’s holding into the rice he’s cooking. _What?_ he signs frantically.

Arthur shrugs. _You’re acting weird. Do you not want me here?_ He glances away. _I basically just invited myself over, so I get it if—_

Eames stalks across the kitchen and grabs Arthur by the shoulders. He has to put a finger Arthur’s chin to make him look at him.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he says, looking straight into Arthur’s eyes. “If I had my way, you never would.”

Arthur stares at him, mouth slightly open.

“Okay?” Eames asks.

Arthur swallows. “Okay,” he breathes.

~+~+~

They fall into an easy rhythm. Arthur, after arguing extensively with Eames about it, begrudgingly takes the bedroom, and Eames familiarizes himself with his couch. Arthur’s usually the first one up, and Eames has spent the last few days waking to the smell of coffee brewing in his kitchen. They take turns cooking, they watch horrible movies in the evenings, and if Eames squinted, he could see this is an almost domestic set-up, so he makes sure not to look too closely, to read into things that aren’t even there.

Arthur’s decided to become his friend. It should be enough.

It is enough.

But that doesn’t mean Eames can’t dream.

~+~+~

They take a couple jobs, some on their own, some together. And somehow, they always end up going back to Eames’ apartment and being not-quite-domestically domestic and watching shitty movies and just being themselves.

Eames sees Arthur in sweatpants almost every day now, and it’s weird to go into a job and see Arthur At Work, with his suits and frowns and serious tone, now that Eames has witnessed Arthur Away From Work with his fluffy socks and dimples and infectious laugh.

Eames thinks that somehow he’s fallen for Arthur even more than he originally had. And that isn’t what he had intended to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Tumblr,](http://iamanonniemouse.tumblr.com/) if anyone wants to come over and try and motivate me to finish this fic in a more timely manner, or yell at me about the angst I'm inflicting in my other ongoing fics.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing is, Arthur knows that Eames is…interested in him. He knows that. And depending on how honest he’s being with himself, he also knows that, under different circumstances, they could already be dating right now.
> 
> Arthur knows that it’s up to him to make the next move. And he doesn’t know why he can’t.
> 
> That’s what he’s overthinking. Why he’s so damn scared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. GUYS. It’s finished. I know, right? I don’t believe it either. Quick, check your totems. Are we dreaming?
> 
> I started this fic on June 8, 2016, and between then and now I have given you a whopping nine chapters. Count ‘em. Nine. I’m so bad. *crawls under desk*
> 
> First of all, I want to say that I am blown away by the reception this fic has received from all of you, my amazing readers. I came up with this idea on a lark, really, because I was having one of those would-you-rather conversations, and someone asked, “Would you rather be blind or deaf?” and someone else answered, “Deaf, because I could still be self-sufficient.” And I thought, That’s such an Arthur thing to say.
> 
> I never expected it to garner this much loyalty and support. Thank you all so much for that. <3
> 
> A huge shout-out to [Deinvati](http://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati/profile) who read the email I sent her that was ridden with ???? and *shrugs* and I DON’T EVEN KNOW ANYMORE and responded with The Idea that made this chapter work and then held my hand and walked me through the intricacies of the chaos that is the ER and the hospital in general. You’re magic, my dear. Thank you!!!

Arthur tends to overthink things. It’s great for work, because turning the same information over and over and over in his head helps him catch the subtle gaps in his research, helps him uncover things that others miss. But it’s not as great for his personal life, because turning the same information over and over and over in his head means that by the time he’s certain of what’s going on, the opportunity has already passed him by.

It was never that important before, his lack of a personal life. But Eames makes Arthur overthink his overthinking, makes him wonder if he’s missed one cue too many.

_I don’t want you to leave. If I had my way, you never would._

What the hell did he mean by that?

~+~+~

Arthur likes to compartmentalize things. He’s got a file cabinet in his mind, with an endless supply of folders. Eames has his own drawer, sorted chronologically.

Lately, his drawer’s been filling up. Arthur might have to give Eames his own cabinet at this rate.

He fidgets with the remote in his hands as he thinks about that. Giving Eames his own file cabinet would mean he had enough memories to fill it. And that would mean something that Arthur hasn’t finished analyzing yet. He doesn’t know how he feels about it.

Eames walks through the kitchen, head bobbing slightly. His lips are pursed, and Arthur is suddenly, illogically, inexplicably _angry_ that he can’t hear these things, that he can’t hear it when Eames whistles or when Eames enters a room or walks up behind him. 

He looks back at the TV and glares at the blocky subtitles and just _hates._

Eames drops onto the couch next to him. His arm is warm against Arthur’s. He’s got a bowl of popcorn.

He holds it out towards Arthur, eyebrows raised.

Arthur shakes his head.

Eames shrugs and shoves a handful in his mouth.

 _More for me,_ Arthur can almost imagine him saying. His rage lowers to a bubbling simmer.

Eames glances over at him again and puts down the bowl. _You okay?_ he signs.

Arthur hesitates. Is he? There’s no easy answer. He doesn’t know what to say.

Eames shifts and wraps an arm around Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur can feel the tension in Eames’ arm, can tell that Eames is waiting for him to shove him away and tell him never to do that again. But it feels good, and Arthur’s overthinking things too much, and Eames is warm, so he relaxes into Eames’ side and steals a handful of popcorn and tries not to think about all the things he’s adding to his drawer.

~+~+~

The thing is, Arthur knows that Eames is…interested in him. He knows that. And depending on how honest he’s being with himself, he also knows that, under different circumstances, they could already be dating right now. But Mal jumped off a building and Dom went on the run and Arthur didn’t have time to think about pouty-lipped, obnoxiously-shirted Englishmen while he was trying to keep Dom from being caught.

But Dom is home again, and the Fischer job was a success, and he and Eames have been, well, _living together,_ for lack of a better term, for months now. And Eames has been nothing but a gentleman, and a friend. Arthur knows that it’s up to him to make the next move. And he doesn’t know why he can’t.

That’s what he’s overthinking. Why he’s so damn scared.

~+~+~

There’s a job. The extractor’s a piece of work, the architect doesn’t know what paradoxical architecture is, and Arthur is almost entirely sure their chemist is an addict. He doesn’t know why his research didn’t reveal _any_ of this.

Eames runs a hand over his back as he walks by, munching on a donut. Tension bleeds out of Arthur that he didn’t even know was there.

It could be worse, he thinks. At least Eames is here.

~+~+~

It turns out the extractor’s a backstabbing piece of work and their chemist _is_ an addict, and Arthur and Eames are kicked out of the dream when their chemist’s lifeless body knocks over their chairs. The room is filled with men their extractor hired to kill them and with gangsters who are here to collect their chemist’s debt.

Eames glances around the room. “Did you really have to kill him?” he asks the gangsters. “That’s going to make it a lot harder for you to collect.”

Both the gangsters and the men hired to kill them are unimpressed.

Eames’ fingers twitch behind his back. Arthur understands.

They move in unison. Arthur takes out the hired men closest to him, can feel their breath against his face, their groans. It’s over quickly. He turns to look for Eames.

Across the room, the gangsters—and their shitty excuse of an extractor—are on the floor, either unconscious or dead. Eames is—

Arthur runs. Eames grimaces as Arthur kneels down next to him. He mutters something, but Arthur can’t quite read it.

He presses his hand to the wound on Eames’ side and clenches his jaw. This is all his fault. 

“Come on,” he says, feeling his vocal cords vibrate. He helps Eames to his feet, and they stagger out the door.

~+~+~

Hospitals go against every rule Arthur has ever made, but Eames’ breath is rattling so much Arthur can _feel_ it, and his coughs leave a wetness on the side of Arthur’s neck and Arthur knows he doesn’t have the tools to deal with this.

He hopes Eames has insurance.

He had worried that there would be a communication issue, but apparently staggering through the door with a profusely bleeding, semi-conscious man is communication enough. There’s an old security guard at the door, but it clearly doesn’t even dawn on him to draw the gun holstered at his waist before they pass him.

Inside, it’s chaos.

Someone’s asking him questions but he can’t answer, and he can only barely read her lips, and Eames is clinging to his side, more dead weight than anything else, his breathing shallow, and the woman looks like she’s shouting at him, loud enough that it makes Eames startle, sluggishly, and Arthur doesn’t know how to communicate that he _can’t fucking hear,_ and then somebody else appears with a wheelchair and Eames gratefully sinks into it, head lolling. This second nurse kneels and pokes and prods at Eames, and Arthur wants to ask what’s happening, but the first nurse waves a hand in front of his face and continues to speak loudly at him.

He gestures at her, pointing at his ears and his mouth and trying to figure out how to make her understand, and the second nurse stands and pushes Eames’ wheelchair away.

He starts after them, but the first woman puts her arm out in front of him, shouts some more, and shoves a clipboard and pen at him, pointing at the chairs.

The hospital really isn’t like the movies at all.

He sits in a hard, plastic chair and forces himself to focus on the papers in front of him. There’s a page with the usual—name, date of birth, address—but on top of that is a blank white paper with questions scrawled on it:

_What happened?_

_How?_

_When?_

_Symptoms?_

It goes on.

Arthur assumes this is what the woman was shouting at him.

At the bottom of the first page is: _Relationship to patient: Family | Friend | Guardian_

Arthur frowns, crosses all three out, and writes _PARTNER._

It seems easier.

He fills out everything, lies about only half of it, and walks back up to the counter. There’s a young man sitting behind it, and he takes the clipboard and glances over the paperwork. He asks Arthur something, but the angle’s wrong, and Arthur can’t make it out.

The man turns and glares at him and Arthur just—

He pulls out his Moleskine, snatches the pen from the man’s hand, writes in large, capital letters, _I AM DEAF,_ rips the page out and all but throws it at the man’s face.

The man glances at the paper, arches his eyebrows, and glares at Arthur again. He flips the paper over and writes, _Go sit back down,_ and points at the chairs as if Arthur’s an imbecile.

 _Where is Thomas?_ Arthur writes on another page of his Moleskine.

The man rolls his eyes. _Will tell u when he’s out._ He waves dismissively and turns away.

Arthur sits back down in the hard, plastic chair and waits.

He knew hospitals were a bad idea.

He sits in the waiting room, crowded and frenetic and entropic, and watches people run and cry and scream and faint. He wonders what it sounds like in reality, this unhinged chaos.

He thinks about Eames. His rattling breath, his cough. Arthur raises a hand and runs it along the side of his neck, where Eames had been leaning.

It comes away red.

~+~+~

They won’t tell him anything.

It’s been hours, and they refuse to tell him anything, and the dipshit guy behind the counter has left, and now a heavyset, scowling woman is in his place, and she shouts at Arthur then looks away in disgust when he can’t answer and refuses to read what he writes in his Moleskine and sends him back to his seat.

It hits him, then, when’s he’s slouched in a brittle, plastic chair and flitting on the edges of utter exhaustion: This is why he’s so damn scared.

He’s the best point in dreamshare, and it was his job to research everyone on their team, and he failed. The extractor sold them out, the chemist had outstanding debts, and the architect didn’t know what a fucking paradox was. It’s been happening to him more often, lately. But this is the first time someone was hurt because of it. _Eames_ was hurt because of it.

He’s also _fucking deaf._ So fucking deaf that he didn’t hear the fucking gunshot when Eames was shot literally feet away from him. So fucking deaf that he can’t fucking communicate with the people who are supposed to be saving Eames’ life right now.

He’s a liability.

He’s lucky he’s managed to stay in dreamshare this long, really.

He thinks about Eames, remembers his face, pale, hurt, where he lay on the floor. He can’t do this. He can’t.

~+~+~

There’s nothing else for him to do, so he writes in his Moleskine, writes all his thoughts and fears and how he’s just _so damn scared of everything,_ especially the things he doesn’t understand yet, and it takes pages and pages but he has nothing else that he can do right now, and it kills the time.

A pair of shoes enter his line of vision. He looks up.

A woman is looking at him expectantly. She must have said something. Arthur watches her, too exhausted to even try and ask what she wants. After a moment, she nods to herself and gestures for him to follow her.

He stands, muscles stiff and heavy from sitting for too long, and hobbles down the hall after her. They stop outside a room. Arthur glances inside, sees Eames’ face.

The woman touches his arm for his attention and points at the clock on the wall, then the sign beneath it.

_Visiting hours: 1pm to 8pm_

It’s 7:45.

Arthur nods, and she opens the door and lets him into the room.

~+~+~

Eames is asleep. The machines on either side of the bed pulse and blink.

The room is so still Arthur’s almost afraid to move.

He sits on the edge of the seat next to the bed and watches Eames’ chest rise and fall. 

_I’m sorry,_ he thinks. He puts his hands on top of Eames’, traces his fingers over the warm skin. He closes his eyes, shutting out everything except the feeling of Eames’ hand and his. This was so close. Too close.

A hand touches his shoulder and he startles, eyes flying open. It’s the woman from earlier. She smiles gently and points at the clock.

Arthur nods numbly and stands, trailing his fingers over the back of Eames’ hand.

The woman hands him a piece of paper. _Police will be by tomorrow,_ she’s written on it.

Arthur nods again. Hospitals have to report gunshot wounds. He knew that.

He follows her out into the hall.

~+~+~

The cops arrive in the afternoon the next day, while Arthur is writing in his Moleskine at Eames’ bedside.

He steps out into the hall with them and shakes their hands. They’re polite and courteous. They wait patiently as Arthur writes down the lie he’s fabricated, smile and nod their thanks before they leave. It’s quick and painless and Arthur is left in the hall feeling like there’s something he’s definitely forgotten.

His nerves are frayed.

He sits back down and watches Eames for a few moments, takes in the curl of his eyelashes against his check, the stubble growing on his chin. He writes in his Moleskine.

~+~+~

They move Eames out of the ICU and into a room on the fourth floor. Arthur has a new chair to sit in at Eames’ side. The visiting hours are better.

The next day, Eames wakes up.

~+~+~

Eames is awake. He’s awake and conscious and _alive,_ and Arthur almost wants to collapse in his arms and give into the exhaustion that’s been hounding him for days.

He pushes down the swell of emotion and smiles drily and signs, _About time, sleeping beauty._

Eames smiles, worn and pale but _alive._

~+~+~

At the end of the week, when Arthur is writing and Eames is dozing, the nurse on duty pulls Arthur out into the hall and hands him some papers detailing how he should care for Eames when they get him home.

Arthur frowns. _Home?_ he writes on the back of the paper. _Already?_

The nurse smiles gently and nods.

Arthur walks back into the room, scanning through the information. As he sits, he reaches for the edge of Eames’ bed, where he left his Moleskine, but his hands only touch the coarse weave of the hospital blanket.

Arthur looks up, panicking. _“Eames,”_ he says.

Eames watches him, eyes shadowed. Arthur’s Moleskine is open, resting in his lap.

Arthur stands, grabs it. Eames doesn’t try to stop him.

“I’m sorry,” Eames says.

Arthur looks at the Moleskine and at Eames. He shakes his head and walks out of the room. He doesn’t look back.

~+~+~

He goes back to the hotel then stalls out.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He should check out, run away, except Eames’ things are here, too, and he can’t just take Eames’ things with him. Can he?

And where would he go? The North Pole?

He saw the shadows in Eames’ eyes, but he has no idea what they meant.

He sits on the bed, and a wave of exhaustion hits him. His eyes close. Maybe this is better, to sleep now and deal with all of that later.

He sprawls on top of the bedspread. Yes. That’s what he’ll do. He breathes deeply and falls into a dreamless sleep.

~+~+~

He’s warm and comfy, and someone’s running their fingers through his hair. He sighs and pushes his head closer to the source. They lightly scratch at his scalp then tangle in his locks. This is nice. This—

His eyes fly open. A blanket is spread over him, and Eames is lying on top of it, facing him.

Arthur stares.

“I checked myself out,” Eames says, trying to smile. He leans in and brushes his lips across Arthur’s forehead.

Arthur would think he’s dreaming, except everything around him is silent as ever.

Eames nuzzles against his cheek and says something else, his breath pulsing against Arthur’s skin.

Arthur shivers and leans away. “I can’t do this, Eames,” he whispers. “I can’t.”

Eames kisses the tip of his nose. “You can, darling.” He takes Arthur’s hand. “Don’t be scared. Please. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

Arthur closes his eyes. There’s so much to be scared of, so much, but then Eames’ lips are pressed against his, and Eames’ hands are caressing Arthur’s face, and Arthur lets himself stop being scared, for once.

 _Don’t be scared,_ he can feel Eames mouthing against his skin.

He reaches out, runs a hand through Eames’ hair. _I’m not scared,_ he thinks. _Not anymore._

~+~+~

After, Arthur rests his head on Eames’ shoulder and tells himself not to be afraid.

He’s been scared all his life, it seems. It’s a hard habit to break.

 _Cobb is home,_ he reminds himself. _Home with the kids. Safe. Everything is under control. You can stop running now._

Except Eames just checked himself out of the _hospital,_ and speaking of which, they need to leave soon, like _yesterday_ soon, and he finds himself thinking of flight times, contingency plans, worst-case scenarios.

Eames shifts, suddenly, grabs Arthur’s Moleskine off the nightstand and a pen. He writes something, holds it in front of Arthur’s face.

_I can hear you thinking._

Arthur sighs and shakes his head.

Eames writes some more.

_You can’t control the world, darling._

Then, _Let me help you. Please?_

Arthur pulls the notebook from his hands, and the pen. He hesitates, pen hovering over the page.

He doesn’t know what to say.

Eames shifts again, sits up. He holds up a hand, thumb, forefinger, and pinky extended. _I love you._

Arthur stares.

 _I mean it,_ Eames signs. _I’ve loved you for a long time. But I never told you, because you had enough on your plate, and…_ He shrugs. _And I’m a coward. But I love you. And I want to…_ He shakes his head. _I love you. I want to be with you. Please don’t be scared anymore._

Arthur can’t stop staring. He doesn’t know what to say. 

Eames gestures at the Moleskine. 

_You’re not a liability. You’re not weak. You’re the strongest person I know, and the smartest, and the fastest. You’re the best._

He leans closer, smiles. 

“And I love you,” he says, and presses a kiss against the corner of Arthur’s mouth. 

Arthur closes his eyes and wraps his arms around Eames’ neck and breathes in his scent. He speaks, feels his vocal chords vibrate under his skin. 

And Eames clutches him close and presses kisses in his hair, and Arthur isn’t scared anymore. 

__

~+~+~

Arthur wakes up to a total, all-encompassing silence. He can’t hear the rustle of fabric as he shifts under the sheets, or the soft whisper of Eames’ breath beside him, or the steady bustle of the world outside the hotel window.

He can’t hear any of these things, so he knows he’s in reality.

And there’s so much he still has to do, like _check them out of this damn hotel,_ but there’s still time to rest, to wait, to not be afraid.

He sits up in bed and breathes deeply, glancing over his shoulder at Eames.

Eames is awake and smiling at him, edges softened with sleep. “Morning, darling,” he says.

Arthur reads his lips and imagines what Eames’ voice must sound like this early in the morning, rough and deep and silky, and smiles. 

_Maybe it’s not that shitty a reality after all,_ he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks yet another fic that I have managed to drag to the finish line and instead of leaving it to wither away in a hole, as darling [Flosculatory](http://archiveofourown.org/users/flosculatory) so aptly described it.
> 
> I am trying to see the error in my ways and will (hopefully) not post incomplete fics half as often as I do. Hopefully, I will have enough self-control in the future to wait until I write the entire thing before posting. Hopefully. We shall see.
> 
> In the meantime, off to finish my other two WIPs—and to start many more! I already have a list of ideas… *rubs hands together eagerly*
> 
> This has been quite a journey, I must say. Thank you all for coming along for the ride. <3


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